


What’s Really In the Closet?

by JustAnotherNerd1820



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Angst, Boggarts, Happy Ending, Hogwarts AU, M/M, This actually is a random thing for something else but I changed the names.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26900125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherNerd1820/pseuds/JustAnotherNerd1820
Relationships: Johnlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock&John
Kudos: 12





	What’s Really In the Closet?

John stares at the rattling cabinet. "It's just a Boggart, John," he hears himself say. "It's just a Boggart." But it's not the creature he's afraid of, it's the voices that continue ringing in his head after. "Monster. Murderer. You could have saved them." And then they become simply insults. "Freak. Loser. Jerk. Idiot." The words come anyway, but facing the boggart will make it worse. He knows it will.  
"John?" A soft voice comes from the doorway, and John spins around, wand drawn, despite the fact that he recognizes the sound.  
" Sherlock? What are you doing here?"  
"I was making sure you were okay. I saw you come in here looking agitated, and then you didn't come back out. It's been a half hour."  
"A half hour?" John's inner voice jeers. "You've been standing here, staring at a stupid cabinet for half an hour? Come on, get over it. You don't sleep anyway. The voices shouldn't bother you anymore."  
"John?" Sherlock asks again.  
"Sorry, right, uh, yeah. I'm here because, um, McGonagall asked me to get rid of the Boggart." John gave a small, forced laugh. "I am the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher after all."  
"Right," Sherlock agreed. "Which means your demons are far worse than mine."  
"You have no idea," mutters John.  
"Let me help you."  
Four simple words. It should have been easy to say yes. And it was so easy to say yes in his head, but the words refuse to leave his mouth. "You can't."  
Sherlock steps in the room, making his way around the tables and random junk on the floor. "You have to love our colleagues," he stated, bumping into a cauldron that hissed and burned his ankle. "Always so organized."  
Despite the thoughts racing through his head, John manages a laugh. "Are you any better?" The words slip out before he stops them. "Stupid," his brain tells him. "You can't even carry on a normal conversation without saying something weird."  
"Oh yes," Sherlock replies, surprising John so much that he steps backwards, knocking over a pile of quills. "I am so much more organized than these people."  
Thousands of responses flit through John's head. "I think it's mostly Flitwick and Sprout who make the mess."  
"That makes sense, especially considering that most of the items are covered in dirt." Sherlock walks toward the cabinet. "Boggarts are usually easier with two."  
"Don't!" It comes out before he can filter it, before he can tell himself it will be fine.  
"Why not, John?"  
"Just… just don't. Please. I can't stand it."  
"Me or the boggart?" They're playful words, but the deeper question isn't lost on either of them. There's a long silence.  
"The boggart," concedes John, caving to the silence Sherlock seems so willing to enter.  
"I know," Sherlock whispers back, opening the trunk and letting the being fill the room. A body tumbles onto the ground, covered in blood, still as a stone. John can't see what it is from his position, but he can make out a pair of glasses on the face.  
"Who is it?" he asks, moving closer to get a better look. Sherlock doesn't move, but John can see who it is. "Is it… is that me?"  
Sherlock flushes, and John receives his answer. "It rotates through a lot of people. You just happen to be here."  
"Well, that means you know I'm not-" John glances at the body on the floor. "Dead."  
His attempt at a joke falls flat, and Sherlock glances at him. "Yes, that is very helpful."  
"Well, at least you have confirmation that I'm alive. All of mine are actually dead." The words come out (again) without him stopping or filtering, and Sherlock turns to face him.  
"What?"  
"Nothing. Nothing. Just, forget it. I'll let you deal with this here." John takes a step back, but Sherlock grabs his robe and pulls him forward.  
"What do you mean all your boggarts are dead?"  
"Nothing. I, uh, meant nothing."  
"No." Sherlock is curious now, but also a bit concerned. "Tell me."  
"Well, I, just meant that, well, all the people who become my boggarts… they're all, dead. And, well, it's my fault." John expects Sherlock to laugh, but the room is silent.  
"I won't tell you that it isn't your fault, because I know that that doesn't help, but you're here now, to save me from my boggart. Right here, John. Right now."  
John tries not to let the pain run across his face. But its feet dance, flicking tears into his eyes, and making him bite hard on his lip to keep them from coming out. "I'm not even helping, I'm just standing here. I can't even deal with a boggart myself."  
Sherlock makes his way closer to John, burying his arm in the other man's robes. "But it's like you said, right? You're here, so I know that you're not dead."  
"That was, that was a stupid thing to say," mutters John. He wants to pull away, but the sense of another person so close-so close!-fills him with a comfort he hasn't experienced in a long time. "I can, I can deal with it."  
"Silly," whispers Sherlock, carefully pulling his wand out of his pocket. "I don't think it was stupid at all." He raises his wand towards the boggart, smiling. "Riddikulus." The boggart vanishes, and John breathes a sigh of relief. Even if it doesn't have the same soul sucking powers as a dementor, boggarts still freak him out-changing the quality of the atmosphere.  
The room stays silent even after the monster is gone, the men enjoying the other's presence. "We probably better go," John says after a long, comfortable pause.  
"Why? We're professors now. We don't have a curfew."  
"Yes, but people will talk."  
"Only if one lets them." Even so, Sherlock unfolds his arm from John's robe. "But we can leave."  
"At the same time?"  
"Are you really that paranoid to be seen with me, Professor?"  
"No, I simply, I simply," John stutters over his words, trying to figure out how to put into words the thoughts rushing through his head. "I simply am not a fan of being in the limelight."  
"Well then, we will leave one at a time. Me first, and then you."  
Hesitantly, John takes a step forward, towards the door. He glances back at Sherlock, and sighs. "I suppose it doesn't really matter, does it? I'm just paranoid."  
"I suppose," murmurs Sherlock, closing the gap between them once more. "But if there is someone out there, that's why we should do this in here." The tiny space he had left between them closed, and John didn't protest as their lips met, and all the world seemed to crash down around them.  
Neither cared. Neither planned on caring in the future either, as they wrapped their arms around each other.  
"Thank you." I don't know who said the words, but they were said, and they were felt, and as they broke apart, hands still locked together, "I love you" seemed too small of a sentence to say.


End file.
